


The View from the Diogenes

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Canon Compliant, Family, Friendship, Gen, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The decades-long friendship of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, as seen from the singular perspective of Mr. Mycroft Holmes, long-suffering older brother and sometimes the British government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

December 1880

Mycroft Holmes tried to keep an eye on his younger brother as much as possible, largely because he’d promised their mother he would. He was, however, finding this much more difficult to do than he’d initially thought. Partly because Sherlock was always so infernally unpredictable. Mycroft never varied his routine; his days ran comfortably in the same direction: breakfast, the office, the Diogenes, and finally home. One never knew if Sherlock had even left his rooms, or if he was spending the day in disguise down at the docks. There was never any telling when Sherlock would decide to let his brother know he was still among the living. At least, that had been the case until this month.

“Sherlock, I really cannot have you disturbing my club at all hours,” Mycroft said patiently as his younger brother entered the Diogenes club for the third time that week. He never even bothered to give Mycroft warning that he was coming.

“Forgive me, Mycroft, but you have no idea the conditions at my Montague Street rooms. Not only must I smell all variations of unpleasant odors, but my neighbors are a most noisy group. It is impossible to get any sleep or private time for research,” Sherlock Holmes helped himself to some of the dinner that had been laid out for Mycroft, who sighed patiently.

“I seem to remember that you are not the quietest of residents either, dear brother. I distinctly recall waking up to your violin serenades at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, and I shall not even mention the odors derived from your chemical experiments.” There was a reason the Holmes brothers had not shared living quarters since Mycroft had left home at the age of sixteen.

The younger Holmes smiled sheepishly, “Perhaps you’re right, Mycroft. But the situation is quickly becoming intolerable. No clients wish to engage a detective whose address is so low as mine. Lestrade says he dislikes coming there himself to tell me of crimes.”

Mycroft made a mental note to call for Lestrade and ask how his brother’s rooms looked. Sherlock looked almost unhealthily thin. “Money troubles, Sherlock?”

“I have had no clients! I simply must have a better address but I cannot afford it myself,” Sherlock sighed, throwing himself morosely back in the armchair. “I have all the knowledge necessary to rise to the top of the field of detection if only I am given the chance.”

Mycroft waited patiently until his brother’s theatrics were over. He never responded to Sherlock’s more doom-and-gloom moods, and soon enough, the younger Holmes sat up straighter and looked his brother in the eye. “I have run through the funds left to me by the sale of the estate, are you certain you could not lend me some money just to acquire decent rooms?”

Mycroft gave his brother a knowing look, “You know that I take a salary of no more than 400 pounds, and most of it is tied up in my club membership and my Pall Mall rooms. I could not lend you the money even if I wanted to.” His expression was not unsympathetic. The Holmes brothers were two unusual fellows in a world that tolerated only certain standards. Carving out their own niches had been difficult. “Many people find someone to share the rooms if they cannot afford them alone.” He knew suggesting the idea would be more than a little hypocritical; sharing rooms with someone else would have been his own worst nightmare, but then, he had never been in such financial difficulties.

Predictably, the look Sherlock gave him could wither stone, “Truly, Mycroft, that is low even for you. I have no wish to share rooms with anyone; I am formed for the solitary life.”

“On your own head be it then, when you must take even worse rooms,” Mycroft said with a shrug. He and Sherlock, while united by blood and certain traits common to their family, were no more sentimental than obligation required. If his younger brother wanted to ruin his life and his career because of his refusal to share rooms, that was his own fault. “You must choose what you value more, Sherlock. Your solitude, in rooms which you had already admitted are hardly solitary and are ill-suited for your purposes. Or the advancement of your career, which must depend on the help of a partner to pay the rent.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Sherlock said, looking highly resentful of Mycroft’s impeccable logic. “Where the deuce am I going to find someone who won’t mind occasional gunfire indoors and midnight violin solos?”

Mycroft privately held that his brother’s “solos” could hardly be counted as music, but he smiled and said, “I cannot guess, but good luck to the man, whoever he is. I know all too well what you are like as a companion.”

Sherlock did not dignify this with a response, merely glared at his brother and stalked out of the Diogenes Club.

 

February 1881

He did not return for some weeks, during which time Mycroft found himself almost perturbed at Sherlock’s lack of appearance. He was about to send for Lestrade to ask if his brother had disappeared on a case when the younger Holmes himself appeared, looking harried but flushed with excitement. “Ah, Mycroft! I was just coming to see you and give you my new address.” He held out a slip of paper with the words 221b Baker Street, London, written on it. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, impressed.

“This is a very central address. No doubt it will be of great use to you in your career. I take it you took my advice?”

Sherlock scowled, “Yes, I found a fellow to share the rooms with. His name is Dr. John H. Watson, and he is an Army Doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan with an injured shoulder.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft said. He would have to look up this Dr. Watson later. “Mind you don’t scare him off, Sherlock. If the poor man just returned from Afghanistan, he’s likely looking for some quiet time to recover.”

“I am aware of that, Mycroft. I assure you, I have been most considerate. The fellow hardly seems to mind my presence. In fact, he often seems glad that I am there. I have noticed no visitors for him, nor any correspondence, so no doubt he welcomes even my presence. As for myself, I find him pleasant enough company, if one must share one’s rooms.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in surprise a second time. Sherlock counted no one as simply “pleasant company.” In fact, he spent most of his time trying to avoid anyone who could not lead him to some ghastly crime or another. “How long have you been living together?”

“Almost a month,” Sherlock answered. He started to laugh in that silent way he had. “Dr. Watson seems most interested in me; I often see him looking as if to guess what it is I do for a living. He was most impressed that I deduced the nature of his military service the moment I met him.”

“Perhaps you should take him into your confidence. After all, if you are going to gain a reputation, and no doubt you are, you are likely to make enemies that will put Dr. Watson’s life in danger as well,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock laughed harder, “Oh, Mycroft, we will not be sharing for that amount of time. Upon my word, as soon as I establish myself, which is already becoming easier in my new rooms, and he opens a medical practice as he intends to, I am sure we will go our separate ways.”

Mycroft was no expert on human relationships, but he did know his younger brother, and he had fully expected Sherlock to be at the end of his rope after sharing rooms with another for close to a month. The fact that he wasn’t was the most interesting sign of all.


	2. The View from the Diogenes

October 1881

“I take it I was correct in my solution to the little problem you brought to my attention last week?” Mycroft asked, sitting across from his brother in the Strangers’ Room in the Diogenes.

“Oh, yes, the affair of Lady Millina and the identical dogs. After some small enquiries I determined that you were indeed correct,” Sherlock Holmes said, “I must say, I think Watson thought I was gifted with divine knowledge after I returned with that explanation and was later proven correct. At least until I disabused him of the notion by explaining my processes.”

“Hmmph,” Mycroft said. “You enjoy showing off for him. You always did like an audience, dear brother. I take it that is why you did not inform him that I was responsible for the theory that you later proved correct?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I never can resist the dramatic.” Mycroft suspected the drama of the reveal was often the only thing that kept his perpetually bored brother interested in cases after he’d already figured out the answer. More to the point, he was finding himself more and more interested in this Doctor Watson. He thought they would have parted ways by now, either because no man could stand to live with Sherlock Holmes for longer than six months, or because Sherlock himself would become fed up with the situation. He finally gave up wondering and got straight to the point.

“Are you searching for new lodgings? Your career seems to be doing splendidly so far, to hear the official police talk.” To hear the official police grumble is what he should have said. The gossip about how Sherlock Holmes was more competent than the police force had even reached Mycroft’s staff, and had created quite a flurry of activity in trying to determine how the authorities could improve themselves.

Sherlock shook his head, “I find these rooms serve my purposes very well. The landlady is certainly much more pleasant than the one at Montague Street. I see no reason to move now.”

“So is Doctor Watson opening a practice then? You did say that was his intention?”

“For heaven’s sake, Mycroft, the man has only just regained the minimum of health!” Sherlock Holmes looked as indignant as his elder brother had ever seen him. “Your Afghan campaign destroyed his health utterly; in the beginning it was difficult for him to even climb the stairs!”

Mycroft watched his brother with interest; he had never heard Sherlock express this much concern over a fellow human being before. Out loud, he said, “It is not my Afghan campaign, Sherlock. I simply make it possible for Her Majesty to do what she feels must be done. So he is not leaving either? You are both comfortable enough to continue lodging together?”

“I find it useful to have someone to discuss things with; on more than one occasion he has been useful in helping me find a solution to a case. Oh, do grow up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped as his brother began to laugh in disbelief. “Is it so difficult to imagine that I should enjoy another’s company?”

“You never have before.”

“Watson is different. While possessing none of our genius, he is nonetheless intelligent in his own right, courageous, open-minded, and above all, patient. All in all, a very pleasant companion,” Sherlock explained. “He has even been good enough to assist me on a case or two, and I have found it very helpful.”

Mycroft sat up straighter, “You’re taking him on cases?” That was unusual. Sherlock Holmes worked in almost total secrecy. He trusted no one save himself. And now this new fellow-lodger was being given privileged status after a mere nine months?

“I was very nearly killed on a case only two months ago. If not for Doctor Watson’s service revolver, I would not be sitting here now,” Sherlock said in utmost solemnity.

“I thought you said he was only just recovering from the Afghan campaign? Yet he is somehow able to accompany you on criminal chases throughout London?”   
The younger Holmes simply did not answer, but Mycroft was always able to tell when his brother was lying, and he knew that Dr. Watson could in no way be as weakened as Sherlock had made it seem. This whole situation was becoming extremely interesting. 

“I have never felt the need for friendship,” Mycroft began. “My fellow men seem to offer nothing but unpredictability and interruption to one’s routine. I would have thought you were the same; it appears I was wrong. How interesting.” Sherlock always did have that childish need to show off, which Mycroft lacked. Perhaps that accounted for the difference. Mycroft filed the question away in his mental files for later perusal.

“Forgive me for interrupting your thoughts, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, standing up. “But Watson and I have two seats reserved at the performance of Wagner’s latest tonight.” With that, he left, leaving Mycroft alone with this new problem to solve.

The next day, Mycroft used his prerogative as a member of the British government for the first time to look up the records of one veteran in particular. It was as Sherlock had said; Dr. Watson had graduated in 1878 from the University of London with a degree in medicine and promptly joined Her Majesty’s army as a doctor. He had been sent to India, joined his regiment in Afghanistan, was injured, contracted enteric fever at Peshawar and was shipped home. Where, presumably, he was introduced to Sherlock Holmes and they took rooms together. On first sight, seemingly a very ordinary fellow. But Sherlock never took interest in ordinary, so there must be something more unusual about Dr. Watson. Mycroft was almost gratified that his normally unfailing instincts had missed something as important as a need for companionship in his own brother, as it at least gave him something to think about. 

Then again, one never knew with Sherlock. He could decide he was bored with his fellow-lodger by next week and move out before anyone noticed.


	3. Chapter 3

July 1884

“Good evening, Sherlock. You have no case today?” Mycroft asked as he met his younger brother outside the Diogenes Club.

“No, it has been rather a slow summer for crime,” Sherlock Holmes admitted, looking more upset about this fact than any man who had the country’s best interests at heart should. “Watson told me if I was going to ‘gripe and moan about the lack of innovative criminals and foul up the sitting room with chemicals’ I should take myself somewhere else.”

“Hmm. It sounds to me as if the doctor is in rather a bad mood. He is not usually so impatient with you, is he?”

“Yes, he was in quite a tetchy mood,” Sherlock agreed. “From what I can gather his patients were exceptionally difficult today, and in any case, it does me good on occasion to leave my chemical instruments and take a turn about London. However, I am here for the use of the excellent library for which the Diogenes is famous. When I was last here, I believe I saw a volume on the variations of Gregorian chant used in High Medieval Germany that promises to be an interesting study.”

“You are, of course, welcome to use our library,” Mycroft said graciously. Sherlock may not have belonged to the Diogenes Club, but as brother of one of the founding members, he was free to use whatever facilities he chose.

Sherlock Holmes, when presented with a fascinating study, was no more capable of remaining silent than of stopping his breathing. However, today, even by his own standards, he was quite loud. He did not break the Diogenes Club’s no speaking rule, but made small wordless exclamations every time he discovered something interesting in the text. Mycroft glanced around, knowing he could not throw Sherlock out while he was not actually breaking any rules, but aware that many of the other members were looking askance at them. He felt a sudden kinship with Dr. Watson, who he still had never met. They probably both spent an inordinate amount of time correcting for Sherlock’s more unusual habits.

After a particularly loud exhalation of interest, Mycroft rolled his eyes, tapped his brother on the shoulder and motioned him into the Strangers Room. “Sherlock, you are being rather loud. Are you sure everything is all right? You are not usually so unable to follow the rules of the club.”

Sherlock Holmes sighed. “It is nothing, Mycroft. Watson and I have had a disagreement, that is all.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft said. He had thought he detected a lie in his brother’s eyes when they met earlier. Besides, in four years he had never known Dr. Watson to become so angry with Sherlock that the latter was actually barred from their shared rooms. The man usually had the patience of a saint. “What about?”

Sherlock avoided his gaze, saying, “You know what it is like for me when I have no problem to work on. I needed something to keep myself alert, otherwise I would fall into one of the black moods that so affect me.”

Mycroft’s expression grew stern, “So you used your solution of cocaine?” He did not approve of his brother’s use of narcotics, having formed the opinion that such things were detrimental to one’s health through careful observation of Sherlock himself over the years he had formed the habit. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said heavily. “Watson disapproves of it even more than you do.”

“I daresay he, as a medical man, understands the effects more than I do,” Mycroft allowed, although his own knowledge of medicine was as extensive as any layman’s could be. “Still, I have never heard of him becoming angry enough with you to send you from the house.”

“I have been taking…more of it than usual,” Sherlock admitted. “Ordinarily I take only so much as I need when I am not working. But there has been so little criminal activity of late that I was forced to indulge more often than even I wished!”

Mycroft’s expression grew even sterner, “Sherlock, I have told you many times of my feelings on this subject. Now that I know Dr. Watson feels the same, I hope he has been urging you to stop for your own sake.”

“Like a mother hen,” Sherlock said. “But today he lost control of his temper. He said if I had no care for my own health, or the ease of my friends’ minds, then I would be better off leaving until I had better control of myself. Mind you, I am sure I was causing him great pain. I am always unable to sit still or remain quiet for long when under the effects of the drug.”

Mycroft privately believed that the only thing causing Dr. Watson pain was seeing his friend destroy himself, rather than the irritating effects. Nonetheless, he felt himself to be somewhat at a loss. He could inform his brother of the facts of the effects of cocaine, and had done so many times, but it seemed to do little good. No doubt Dr. Watson, not only a man of science but obviously a compassionate and patient friend, would be more adept at this than Mycroft could ever be. “Perhaps you should return home, Sherlock. No doubt Dr. Watson is waiting for you and I admit I dislike thinking of you wandering the streets in your condition.” He noticed his brother’s eyes were still dilated and knew that coming down from the effects would only be worse.

Sherlock shook his head, “I would rather spend the night on the streets than face Watson’s disappointment in me, after I promised him I would begin to wean myself off the cocaine only yesterday.” A sad look crossed his face, and not for the first time Mycroft wondered at what Dr. Watson brought out in his brother. Years of Mycroft cajoling him had never resulted in Sherlock being saddened at disappointing him.

“Come now, Sherlock, I may not have met the fellow but from what you tell me Dr. Watson is very forgiving, I’m sure he won’t condemn you to spending the night on the streets, and tomorrow is, after all, another day. I would feel easier in my mind knowing you were under a doctor’s care,” Mycroft admitted. He did not like at all the increased frequency in Sherlock’s cocaine usage. Usually he seemed to be able to control his need for the drug, but if what he was saying was any indication, he was losing that ability.

“Thank you for your advice, Mycroft,” Sherlock said suddenly, standing up. “But I do not think I have need of it tonight. I have other places I can go where the company is more to my taste.” Mycroft watched him leave, the worry in his stomach increasing. That wouldn’t do at all; it was nearly time for dinner and his meal would be ruined. But he did not like Sherlock’s angry tone or deadened expression and resolved to head to Baker Street to inform Dr. Watson of his brother’s condition. He knew the places of lesser repute, opium houses and the like, that Sherlock had sometimes frequented while at university, which Dr. Watson would not. They could avert a catastrophe tonight if they worked together.

As he hurried along the streets, Mycroft caught sight of his brother, and breathed a sigh of relief that he appeared to be heading home. For now, at least. Before even a minute passed, however, he saw a shorter, stockier figure with a heavy walking stick and a mustache hail Sherlock with obvious relief. Ducking quickly past them, he heard a little of their conversation.

“I was worried, Holmes, when you did not return for hours. I thought you might have gotten into some trouble. Lestrade told me he has sometimes seen you on ____ Street up ahead, and when I exhausted all other possibilities I decided to take his advice.” Dr. Watson, for that was who this must be, seemed to have forgiven and forgotten their earlier argument; his expression was shining with relief that he had managed to find his friend with no trouble.

“Forgive me, Watson, for scaring you like that,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “I did not mean to take as much as I did.”

“Nonsense, Holmes,” Dr. Watson answered. “Tomorrow is, after all, another day and I am sure you shall do better. There are many techniques for ending your dependency on the substance that we have not tried, and we shall find one that is successful, I am positive of it.” His face showed an utter lack of judgment, a clear belief in his patient’s ability to rise to this current challenge, and an assurance of his absolute support in the matter. Mycroft smiled and went back to the Diogenes in another direction, leaving his brother in Dr. Watson’s capable, trustworthy hands. I will have to meet this Dr. John Watson, he thought before settling himself in the armchair by the fire with the day’s paper. It is just possible that I will owe him my brother’s life.


	4. Chapter 4

September 1888

Mycroft turned the problem he had been presented the previous night over in his mind. Mr. Melas appeared to have stumbled upon a most unsavory situation. The question had seized his imagination so that he found himself unable to concentrate on his evening paper. If only he was more amenable to legwork like his brother, he would be able to determine the solution to this problem for himself. But Mycroft was not that anxious; he was more than content to wait until he had a chance to bring it to his brother’s attention.

As if summoned by his thought processes, Sherlock Holmes strode into the Diogenes Club, motioning Mycroft to the Stranger’s Room as he did so. “This is rather unexpected, Sherlock. I had no word you were coming.”

“I did not expect to be here tonight myself. However, Watson expressed an interest in meeting you when I told him how you shared my ability to observe and deduce,” Sherlock said.

“I hope you told him I have always been better at it than you,” Mycroft said, his casual tone belying his shock. Dr. Watson and his brother had been lodging together for seven years, and he still had not met the man. Only last year, Mycroft had read with interest the serialized novel entitled A Study in Scarlet, detailing the first case that Dr. Watson had been privy to witness. “I shall have to tell him how I enjoyed his chronicle of the case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t encourage him. When I think of how the case has been sensationalized for serialization I find myself quite disappointed, although the writing does possess a certain excitement and romanticism.” His brother’s disparaging tone did not fool Mycroft in the slightest; he knew that whatever Dr. Watson wrote, Sherlock would likely read each one, griping about each of them. Mycroft himself did not read the popular novels of the day, but he had to confess he had found Dr. Watson’s account to be well-written and exciting. He could easily see what captured the imagination of the British public.

They entered the Stranger’s Room to find Dr. Watson standing at the window. Mycroft looked at his brother’s only friend closely. His military bearing, even after all these years, was obvious, as was the slightly awkward way he held his left arm. The doctor’s eyes shone with a calm intelligence, not the blazing genius either of the Holmes brothers possessed, but enough to keep up with either of them. In his bearing, there was an air of compassion to all but a signal that if provoked, he would be more than capable of defending himself. Yes, a worthy companion to Sherlock Holmes, in Mycroft’s eyes. The smaller details, that they had arrived on foot through London’s busiest streets after spending a considerable amount of time in Baker Street’s smoke filled rooms, that Dr. Watson’s fortunes had previously been tight but had recently improved (no doubt due to the sales of A Study in Scarlet), were mere extras.

“I am glad to meet you, sir,”* Mycroft said, before mentioning that he had heard Sherlock’s name more often since the publication of Dr. Watson’s first novel. Dr. Watson had a firm handshake that spoke to strength of character; which he surely had to possess to share lodgings with Sherlock. Mycroft turned to his brother and began asking about his last case, which he had followed with interest. He meant to put Dr. Watson at his ease; the poor fellow looked awed at being in the room with both of them. But then he caught Sherlock’s eye, knowing exactly what the other was thinking, and selected two men from the street below as a suitable study. “Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for example.”*

"The billiard-marker and the other?"*

"Precisely. What do you make of the other?"*

Mycroft and Sherlock went back and forth deducing the former soldier’s status in life, and Mycroft was gratified to see that he had not lost his superiority in observation. It was a game they had often played as children, as it helped to train their abilities and drove off boredom at the many family gatherings they had been forced to attend. Dr. Watson began to laugh, saying it was a bit much. Sherlock explained the deduction process, with help from Mycroft, who watched their interaction carefully. Sherlock was possessed of the largely correct idea that he was more intelligent than the vast majority of people he met, and often could not resist showing this fact off. His explanation to Dr. Watson, however, was patient but not condescending, and the smile they shared was warm. Mycroft took some snuff, contemplating the phenomenon he was witnessing – two people who were utterly comfortable being themselves around each other, an understated expression of complete trust. He had never thought his famously reticent and aloof brother would ever find such a close companion, no more than he himself would. Remarkable.

Mycroft remembered Mr. Melas’s problem then, and wrote out a telegram calling for the interpreter. When the fellow arrived, he told the detective his story and Mycroft related the steps he had taken, to which Sherlock promptly told him all the other things he could have done. The elder Holmes laughed, turning to Watson and saying that Sherlock had all the family’s energy. At this, Sherlock himself stood up, no doubt to begin the investigation. His eyes shone with the scent of the problem and he led Dr. Watson from the room with barely a word of goodbye.

“I was very glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Watson said to Mycroft, still looking rather small and shy in his presence. “It was a most…interesting evening, and no doubt will lead us to an interesting case.”

“Very probably,” Mycroft agreed.

“WATSON!” Sherlock called from the entrance to the club, causing many Diogenes members to look up in shock. Mycroft chuckled.

“You had better go. He does not like to be held up when the game is on.”

Watson smiled, “I know. Coming, Holmes!” Mycroft smiled watching them go. He had the feeling Watson would follow his brother anywhere. He hoped Sherlock appreciated it.

No sooner had they left than an answer to Mycroft’s advertisement in the Daily News arrived, and he sighed with annoyance. Now he would have to go after them, and while he relished the chance to learn more about this singular problem, he really did not want to interrupt his dinner hour.

After the case was solved, Mycroft once again surprised his brother by inviting both he and Dr. Watson to dinner to offer his personal congratulations. “You have surpassed yourself, Sherlock. This affair was one of the most unique I have ever heard of.”

“It was quite an unusual case,” Dr. Watson said. “Although this year alone is remarkable for the case for the case Lord Robert St. Simon brought to your attention.”  
Mycroft had, of course, heard of the poor man’s misfortune in matrimony. The gossip at Whitehall had hardly stopped, and it took no deduction at all to realize Sherlock and Dr. Watson must have been involved in some capacity.

Dr. Watson continued, “And only two years prior, your brother was responsible for the return of the beryl coronet that had been entrusted to Alexander Holder, the banker.” His shy pride in Holmes’s abilities, and the role he himself had played, was obvious.

“I was aware of both,” Mycroft said. “Your notoriety is increasing, dear brother. Taking cases from the nobility!”

“I assure you, the only thing of interest to me is the unique factors the problem itself presents to me. I would refuse the most pedestrian of cases from the highest in the land in favor of the most interesting inquiry brought to me by a street beggar,” Sherlock said, with some acerbity.

“I take it you have been keeping meticulous notes,” Mycroft said to Dr. Watson, ignoring his brother’s high-handed pronouncement.

“Indeed,” Dr. Watson confirmed. “Each one is unique and I wish to record them for posterity, if not necessarily for publication.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” Mycroft said, then, turning to Dr. Watson, “You, sir, shall be the making of my brother, I am sure of it. Already he is well-known due to your literary efforts. I look forward to the next installment.”

Dr. Watson flushed with pleasure at Mycroft’s words, and when the night was over the elder Holmes brother left, deciding that he was very pleased with his brother’s fellow lodger. In fact, if he himself should ever have had a friend, he would have liked that person to be very much like Dr. Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * All text with an asterisk comes from the Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.


	5. Chapter 5

April 1891

Sherlock Holmes burst into his brother’s Pall Mall rooms, looking even more gaunt than he usually did, and with an air of fear, as if he were being followed. Mycroft knew his brother well, and knew that there were few things on this Earth he would admit to being afraid of. The sight worried him more than he felt capable of saying.

“Sherlock, are you all right? You look as pale as death. Have some claret,” Mycroft found the bottle on the sideboard and handed his brother a glass.

“Thank you, I will,’ Sherlock said. “Do you mind if I close your shutters, Mycroft?” He began closing them before his older brother could answer.

“What is the matter, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, a note of urgency entering his voice.

“Mycroft, I have found the pinnacle of my career. I am about to catch the elusive Professor Moriarty!” For the first time, Sherlock’s eyes shone with something like his old excitement, but the fear was still behind them and Mycroft was not fooled at all.

“Professor Moriarty? Do you mean the genius who was behind those art forgeries in France?”

“Yes, and the bank robbery Watson and I foiled that was hidden by the presence of the Red-Headed League,” Sherlock said.* “And countless other cases to which I have given my attention over the last few years.”

Mycroft sat down, rather impressed. He had been aware of some diabolical force behind many of the more elaborate crimes in Britain for the past few years; he and Sherlock had even discussed the matter on a few occasions. Mostly, he thought, when the detective was missing his former lodger, married these three years. 

“I have put the finishing touches upon the trap that will end the careers of the professor and his agents, but he is well aware of me and as the trap will not be put into place until Monday, he has set his entire criminal empire the task of stopping me. He himself visited my rooms this morning, and assured me that he would ensure my destruction.”

Mycroft took some snuff, “I assume you assured him of the same?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock continued, “However, on my way here I was nearly run down by a two-horse van, and only a little while after that, I narrowly missed being crushed by a falling brick. I know he is behind these events, and so I came here. I am sorry to put you in danger, but I needed a safe place to spend some time.”

“You are welcome here in any situation,” Mycroft said gravely, although he knew that if Moriarty knew where Sherlock lived, he would likely be aware of his brother’s lodgings as well.

“His second-in-command is a crack shot, a former soldier from India, much like Watson,” Sherlock continued, as if he had not heard Mycroft’s words. “I happen to know he is in possession of one of the new air-guns made by Von Herder, and I am sure he is ready to train it on me at a moment’s notice. Hence the reason for the closed shutters.”

Sherlock must have spent a day of terror until he reached the relative safety of Mycroft’s rooms. In uncharacteristic moment of familial sentiment, Mycroft remembered that he only had one brother, and said gently, “Stay here as long as you need, Sherlock. These rooms are the most well-protected outside of the residence of the Queen herself.”

A small smile crossed Sherlock’s lips, “I expected nothing less in light of your position. Thank you, although I did not come here only for safety and I will not take up more of your time than necessary. No, I came here to inform you of my plans, in case something should go wrong.” Mycroft nodded, listening intently, and Sherlock went on. “I am planning to leave the country for a few days, until after Monday when Moriarty’s empire will be brought down.”

“Is that wise?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Everything is set in place; even Scotland Yard could not bungle it too badly. Besides, I cannot stay at Baker Street. I am sure I would not last the night.” His expression grew haggard, and Mycroft saw that he likely had not slept in days. “After I leave here, I am going to Watson’s. He shall accompany me for the duration of my stay, which should not be more than five days.”

“Sherlock, you are a wanted man! Are you quite sure you want to bring Watson into this too?” Mycroft knew of his brother’s affection for the man, but he had not thought Sherlock would so disregard his friend’s safety.

“They are already watching his house, Mycroft,” Sherlock said heavily. “I have no doubt that, if he stayed, they would pay him a visit to try and find out my location. The consequences of such a visit would be…unpleasant for him, to say the least. Moriarty would have no qualms against using him to bring me out of hiding, or even to revenge himself upon me. That is my limit, Mycroft. I care nothing for what they do to me, but I would die myself before I see them harm Watson in any way.”

Sherlock appeared astonished at the depth of his own seldom-voiced emotions, and Mycroft shifted awkwardly before continuing. “Is there anything you wish me to do? I do have some influence, you know.”

“First, my will,” Sherlock said. “Hold on to it, please, in the event that all does not go according to plan.” He handed Mycroft a sheaf of paper, which the elder man read in some surprise. 

“I had no idea you were this well-off, my dear boy.” The will listed a large sum for Mrs. Hudson, enough to allow her to remain in her Baker Street rooms without taking lodgers for the remainder of her days, a sizable chunk for Mycroft himself, a fund for the Baker Street Irregulars to be sent for education, and that was only half of the amount listed. The remainder, a huge sum that Mycroft would never have guessed if he looked only at his brother’s threadbare dressing gowns and small lodgings, was to go to the Watsons.

“It is a relatively recent acquirement,” Sherlock conceded. “Second, I have engaged a carriage on the Continental Express tomorrow. Will you drive your brougham to the Lowther Arcade, to the side opposite the Strand, and meet Watson there at a quarter past nine?”

Mycroft had been given the brougham as conveyance to Whitehall by a grateful government, but he had never used it. His rooms were close enough to the office that he enjoyed the walk, although he occasionally sent it out to pick up important personages he had to meet with, rather than meeting them himself in some out-of-the-way place. “And once there, then what?”

“Drive him to Victoria Station, of course,” Sherlock answered. “And wear the black cloak, the heavy one with the red trim, so he will know which one to take.”

For someone who intensely disliked interrupting his routine, Mycroft did not spend more than a second thinking about his answer. “Consider it done, Sherlock. I shall deliver Dr. Watson safely to the station before anyone realizes he is gone.”

Relief shone in Sherlock’s eyes, “Thank you, Mycroft. It is a load off my mind, and I do not trust anyone else to do it. Now, may I take up more of your settee? I don’t think I have slept at all during this week.”

“Nonsense, Sherlock. Take my bedroom,” Mycroft said, and was truly worried about his brother’s condition when he did not resist the suggestion at all. He wondered if Sherlock was truly up to this task, but he had seen his brother succeed against seemingly impossible odds before. Still, he was taking no chances today. He quietly got up, took out the gun he kept in his spare set of drawers, and sat in his sitting room with it loaded. There would be no one who could get to Sherlock Holmes here without first meeting Mycroft, and he had it in his mind that such a meeting would not end well for whoever tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This isn't book canon and but it is Granada canon and that's basically almost as good.


	6. Chapter 6

May 1891

It had barely been a week since both telegrams had arrived at his Whitehall office, at the same time. 

The first, from Dr. Watson said simply: "Regret to inform you, your brother was lost after fight with M. Unable to recover body."

Mycroft had not even had time to process this information, never mind about grieving for his brother, when he opened the second telegram, which was from Sherlock.

"In Florence. Have fooled all into believing me dead. Will take down what remains of Moriarty’s empire incognito. Need funds." An address where he could be reached for the next month followed.

Questions exploded in Mycroft’s mind, the first of which was that he’d thought Sherlock had already taken down Moriarty’s empire. Of all times for his brother to be mistaken. Nevertheless, Mycroft took it upon himself to take care of everything Sherlock needed. He wired the money to Florence, assured Sherlock he would take care of financial matters for the foreseeable future, and then spent the rest of the time pretending to grieve for his younger brother. The week had been a flurry of activity he found highly disturbing to his carefully maintained routine. 

Mrs. Hudson, to Mycroft’s astonishment, began to cry when he visited her and informed her that due to her former lodger’s generosity, she would be able to remain where she was without needing to take boarders.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you. I won’t touch a thing. I’ll leave it just as he liked it,” the landlady said. What, a mess everywhere and smelling of chemicals? Mycroft wanted to ask. He hadn’t thought Sherlock had gone to particular lengths to secure his landlady’s affections, but it seemed there was much about his brother he didn’t know. As he found out over tea for the next two hours, when Mrs. Hudson regaled him with tale after tale of his brother and Dr. Watson looking out for her. This pretending was becoming frightfully awkward. The grief everyone else experienced was undoubtedly real, while Mycroft alone was aware that Sherlock was actually alive. It felt strangely backward; in that it seemed most of these people knew Sherlock far better than his brother had. 

Now, things had begun to calm down. Sherlock had stopped wiring him every day with instructions or asking for money, and Mycroft settled down in his favorite armchair at the Diogenes with the evening newspaper, ready for a quiet night. He had barely sat down when a footman came with a note saying he had a visitor. Mycroft sighed. He had been expecting this.

True to his expectations, Dr. Watson was standing at the window in the Strangers Room, looking out. Mycroft was astounded to see the difference in him since the last time they had met. Dr. Watson’s shoulders were slumped and he seemed tired in a way that went deeper than mere physical exhaustion. When he turned around to shake Mycroft’s hand, it was clear that some of the light had gone out of his eyes. The fresh grief was almost too much for Mycroft to take, and he very nearly sat the doctor down to explain that Sherlock was not really dead.

“I’m sorry I did not come to see you earlier, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Watson said, preventing Mycroft from ruining Sherlock’s whole deception. “As I’m sure you know, it has been an extremely difficult week. I thought you would like to know what happened.”

“Yes, I would very much like that, Doctor. Thank you,” Mycroft answered. Dr. Watson gathered his breath and began his tale. Mycroft listened, to how Sherlock had tried to send him back to England once he realized Moriarty had escaped his trap. How Dr. Watson had been tricked into leaving Sherlock alone at the Reichenbach Falls. How he had arrived back at the Falls, to find only a note and realizing that Sherlock Holmes must have fallen to his death over the falls after a fight with Professor Moriarty. The agonizingly long search for the bodies of both men. The official paperwork, the lonely journey back to England. Each part of the tale seemed to bring the grief closer to Dr. Watson afresh, and he had to stop due to emotion several times. Mycroft found himself in such sympathy with the fellow that he resolved to wire to Sherlock immediately and ask him whether whatever he was doing was worth this deception. 

“I wish I could have returned his body to you, Mr. Holmes. I am sorry for that,” Dr. Watson said when he had finished. “I know he wanted no funeral, but I’m sure it would have been a comfort to you. I know it would have been to me.” The doctor sighed, looking out the window, but, Mycroft was sure, seeing instead the faraway Reichenbach Falls.

“Oh, yes, Doctor,” Mycroft said, feeling horribly guilty. “But I am sure he was pleased that he was able to finish off Professor Moriarty. He would have felt it had some poetic justice.”

“Yes, he did,” Dr. Watson said. “He told me he would have been glad to retire after this, that the capture of Moriarty would be akin to the crown jewel of his career. I just did not imagine it would end like this.” The poor man looked as if he had lost everything at the bottom of those accursed falls. How his brother could do this to his closest – only – friend was beyond even Mycroft’s understanding. It was a cold thing to do, however necessary.

“I am sorry, Doctor, that this happened and that you were there with him when it did,” Mycroft said sincerely. He wondered if he would feel even half the grief, if Sherlock had actually died, as Dr. Watson obviously did. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him, and the thought saddened him somewhat. Maybe that was why he and Sherlock had never been truly close, why Sherlock had turned to a friend instead. Although, Mycroft was quick to point out to himself, Dr. Watson probably complemented Sherlock better than he himself ever could have. 

“You’re sorry? You lost a brother, Mr. Holmes. I am the one who should be sorry,” Dr. Watson spluttered in astonishment.

Mycroft smiled, “That is true, although I doubt that I lost what you did that day at the Falls. You have been closer to him these ten years that I have ever been.” He waved a hand over Dr. Watson’s protests. “‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.’ I would not begrudge my brother this connection that brought him such comfort these last ten years, nor his friendship to you, when you clearly valued it so highly.” Mycroft was not a jealous man by nature; he had no desire for friendship or companionship of any kind, but was glad to see that his brother and Dr. Watson, who did seem to have that need, had found such in each other.

Dr. Watson nodded, “I understand. My own brother and I were not close. Your brother is – was - more of a brother to me than he ever was.” He looked guilty for saying this, but Mycroft could tell it was undoubtedly true.

Dr. Watson left soon after, saying he had to return home to his wife. Mycroft wished him good evening, and good luck. He doubted he would see the man again for a time; the reminders were too strong for them both, albeit for different reasons. He hoped Dr. Watson would find a way to live his life as best he could, and that whatever Sherlock was doing was worth this. He didn’t seem to have spared a thought for Dr. Watson’s feelings in this matter. 

Then again, perhaps he was mistaken. No sooner had this thought entered Mycroft’s mind then a telegram arrived for him. It was not signed, and only consisted of one sentence.

"Watch out for Watson."


	7. Chapter 7

April 1894

Mycroft idly watched his brother pace the Pall Mall rooms. Being trapped indoors when not in disguise was a trial for the detective’s active nature, and he glared at the windows as if they were conspiring to prevent his escape.

“Sherlock, you know Colonel Moran is still out there. It would be no use to anyone if you got yourself killed here in London after three years in the most inhospitable places,” Mycroft said reasonably.

“I would hardly call France inhospitable,” Sherlock said irritably.

“Oh, you know what I meant,” Mycroft said, leafing through the reports Sherlock had brought back from his journeys. “These will come in very useful in the Foreign Office, thank you.”

Sherlock ignored him, “I think I will take a turn about town. I need to get to know the city again, Mycroft.”

“It’s hardly changed,” Mycroft said with a small shrug. 

“You never travel beyond Whitehall; I need to see it for myself,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed. He wished his brother would go and bother Dr. Watson instead, but the doctor was still ignorant of Sherlock’s return. Thinking of this, he looked up, “Are you sure you don’t wish to send a telegram to Dr. Watson? I would be glad to have him come here so that we can explain why this deception of yours was necessary.”

Sherlock sighed, “I will tell Watson when I am ready. I need to make sure the plan is well underway first; we will have all the time we need afterwards.”

Mycroft shook his head, “Sherlock, you lied to him for three years. Did you imagine that he will greet that news with joy?”

For the first time, Sherlock’s expression faltered as he began putting on his disguise, “I never considered that. Do you truly think he will be angry?”

“No, I didn’t think you had. Keep in mind, Sherlock, the man has only just lost his wife. The news of your return after a three-year deception might not be welcome.”

“I would have come back earlier if you had managed to get the message about Mrs. Watson’s death to me sooner! In any case, I’m sure he will understand the necessity of my disappearance,” Sherlock said, although his expression was suddenly slightly fearful, and Mycroft took pity on him.

“I’m sure he will, Sherlock. Dr. Watson is nothing if not understanding.” Understanding was an understatement; Dr. Watson’s nature was exceptionally honest and open; moreover, his regard for the detective was so strong that he would likely take Sherlock at his word. “I would caution against too dramatic a reveal though.”

Sherlock grinned, his disguise finished. Instead of his brother, Mycroft saw only a stooped, old bookseller. “Now, Mycroft, you know I cannot resist the dramatic.” He waved gaily as he left, and Mycroft shook his head. If Dr. Watson was too angry, as indeed was his right, he suspected Sherlock would be lost. He had likely been living in hopes of this reunion for three years.

Mycroft hardly needed to worry; before a few hours passed, a telegram arrived:

Spending day with Watson before tonight. All is forgiven.

Truly, Dr. Watson was a better man than his brother deserved.

May 1894

Mycroft allowed his cousin’s conversation to fill the Strangers Room without necessarily paying much attention. Maurice Verner was a good sort of fellow; friendly and honest, and he never was much bother (compared to some relatives Mycroft could think of). However, he was very talkative, and Mycroft was finding it grating on his nerves.

He saw Sherlock enter the room, and stopped himself from waving in relief and hurrying out the door. For his part, the younger Holmes stopped when he saw their cousin and seemed to be sincerely considering leaving the way he came before he was noticed.

“Cousin Sherlock! I didn’t expect to see you here as well! I was just telling my wife the other day about your return from the unknown. Sophie, I said, they always said my cousin Sherlock Holmes could do the impossible, but now I truly believe it. Can you imagine it? Our own family causing such news?”

“Thank you for your kind compliments, but I was never in the ‘unknown,’ as you put it so eloquently. It was a necessary departure, and now that it is over, I think we should forget all about it,” Sherlock said, once he managed to get a word in edgewise.

Verner laughed, “Of course, no doubt you are enjoying being back in London. I know how much you always loved the place. And I do too, of course. I only wish I could make my way in it as easily as you!”

“Are you in some difficulty?” Mycroft asked. He knew Verner had trained as a doctor, some years after Dr. Watson had done the same, but had been under the impression that he had built a successful career in Charing Cross Hospital.

Verner sighed, “Yes, I regret to say I am. Once I was married to my dear Sophie, I found the hours and demands of my hospital work a drain. I was often on call for successive nights a week, and traveling to the hospital from our lodgings was becoming a daily chore. I handed in my resignation six months ago, intending to start a practice, or else to buy an existing one, but alas, I have had no luck and our savings are nearly depleted.” His emotions, always close to the surface, threatened to overwhelm him before he looked ashamed of himself. “Forgive me. I did not come here to moan about my financial difficulties. I know there is nothing anyone can do. But please tell me why you are smiling, Cousin Sherlock?” 

Mycroft looked over at his brother, who was, indeed, smiling widely. Feeling that this was a tactless response to their cousin’s difficulties, he nudged his brother’s foot with his own under the table.

Sherlock shook his head, “I am sorry, let me explain. You see, I know a man who has been looking to sell his practice for some time, but has been unable to find a buyer. You, dear cousin, may be the solution he has been looking for.”

Verner looked his cousin over with a shrewdness that, while unusual for his guileless nature, nonetheless marked him as sharing blood with the Holmes brothers. “You are speaking of Dr. Watson, I assume?”

Sherlock looked up, shocked, for Verner had never displayed much in the way of deductive abilities. “Yes, indeed. Have you already heard of the sale of his practice?”

Verner shook his head, smiling, “No, cousin, but who else would it be? You are known to count almost no one else as a friend.”

“You are mostly correct in your observation,” Sherlock conceded. “The practice is a good one in the Paddington district, and here is the price he is asking for it.” He wrote down the necessary information on a piece of paper and slid it across the table.

Verner’s eyes, which had lit up with interest, became downcast. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I simply cannot afford that. I could pay perhaps half with what is left of my savings. It’s a shame; it would have answered all my problems!”

Sherlock waved a hand, and to Mycroft’s astonishment, said, “If you are unable to find the funds, I will be happy to lend them to you. I have no small savings of my own, thanks to the French government in return for some assistance I once lent them.”

Verner was almost overcome with gratitude, shaking both their hands multiple times and saying he would gladly meet with Dr. Watson to settle the matter. “And I will pay you back every penny, Sherlock, I mean it.”

“I don’t doubt your word,” Sherlock said. “Only, do not tell Watson it was I who found a buyer for his practice.”

“He will take it badly, I daresay?” Verner asked.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Sherlock said. “He will simply be happy to have a buyer no matter what the circumstances. I dislike credit, even in my cases. That the matter is finished is reward enough for me.”

Verner nodded, “Well, thank you very much, my dear fellow. I had no idea I would come here and find an answer to my problem!” 

“You are very welcome,” Sherlock said heartily, watching his cousin leave. “What are you staring at, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shook his head, “You continue to surprise me, Sherlock.”

“It is not so surprising,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “I had asked Watson to return to lodging with me, as he is a single man again. He said he would be most glad to, but he has had a great deal of trouble selling his practice. What a lucky chance Cousin Maurice happened to be looking for one.”

“That is not what I mean,” Mycroft said. “You are paying for it!”

“I have the funds to do so. Watson really cannot accept less than the price he is asking. Money troubles again,” Sherlock said, in answer the inquiry in Mycroft’s eyes. “I am happy to make up the difference. I believe he has been most unhappy in that house since Mrs. Watson’s death.”

“Sherlock, I handled your finances while you were ‘deceased,’ I know how much money you have. But do you truly not want the credit? Or, even more, do you really want to hide yet another thing from him?”

Sherlock flinched ever so slightly, and then said, “I know he will feel beholden to me if he knew it was my fortune that bought his practice. I do not want that, not when I am the one who should be beholden to him.”

Mycroft sat back and took some snuff, unable to argue the point. His own disposition was very placid, never varying. His brother was prone to highs and lows, and clearly needed a grounding influence. Dr. Watson had been that influence for many years now, and Mycroft knew he very likely owed the fellow his younger brother’s sanity, if not his life.

“You are fortunate, then, Sherlock, that our cousin wandered in here today,” Mycroft finally said.

“Indeed. Everything is getting back to normal,” Sherlock said gaily as he left. Mycroft considered that the now-famous duo of Holmes and Watson back in Baker Street was “normal,” although he doubted anything that went on within its walls fell under the definition. Gunfire indoors, indeed!


	8. Chapter 8

November 1895

Mycroft sent the telegram to his brother’s rooms at Baker Street, not expecting an affirmative answer. Sherlock had never answered yes to an invitation of the sort, but after the extraordinarily successful finish of the Bruce-Partington case, Mycroft had agreed wholeheartedly with the Crown that honors were due. 

He wasn’t surprised, therefore, when a return telegram arrived within minutes, saying only:

I will accept honors. No knighthood.

Mycroft sighed. He could never understand why Sherlock had refused every knighthood offered to him. Speaking objectively, Mycroft could think of few men who had done more for Great Britain than his brother, and many who had done less and were knighted anyway. He sent back another telegram asking why, and was rewarded a few minutes later by his brother’s appearance in his offices, with Doctor Watson in tow. 

“It is good to see you again, Doctor,” Mycroft said. Sherlock had rarely been to see Mycroft lately without Doctor Watson; only on the most personal or secret matters. And even then, sometimes, Sherlock simply ignored protocol and invited the doctor along anyway. As he had done in the Bruce-Partington case, although Mycroft hardly minded. At this point, seeking the services of Sherlock Holmes meant receiving the assistance of Dr. Watson as well. 

“And you, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Watson said, looking around the office with interest and a little awe. Mycroft smiled.

“And this is where the British Empire is occasionally governed from, Doctor.”

Dr. Watson flushed and turned his attention back to Mycroft’s desk. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t see anything I wasn’t supposed to.”

Mycroft laughed, “Relax, Doctor. I trust you as I trust my brother.” Seeing Sherlock intently studying some papers on his desk, he added sternly, “Perhaps slightly more.”

“What was it you wanted of me?” Sherlock asked peevishly. “We were on our way out to dinner.”

“I wanted to ask you why you refuse all honors offered to you! Confound it, Sherlock; the Crown has wanted to honor you on several occasions for your services.”

“Now, Mycroft, I did not refuse all honors. I said I would refuse a knighthood if it was offered,” Sherlock said. 

“You refused a knighthood?” Dr. Watson said in some surprise.

“On two occasions,” Sherlock said. “The first was after the case you so charmingly wrote up as ‘The Adventure of the Second Stain.’ The second was after I returned from my three-year sojourn following the events at the Reichenbach Falls.”

“But why?” Dr. Watson asked, perplexed. “Why refuse such recognition of your career?”

Mycroft watched with interest. He suspected that Sherlock might be more willing to explain himself to his friend than his brother.

“My dear Watson, in my profession, recognition is the most dangerous thing one can have. Detectives must live by anonymity.”

“You certainly have done a good job at that,” Mycroft observed dryly. “Every town in the Empire is ringing with your name, and your address is likely the most well-known in London.” Dr. Watson was unable to stifle his laughter and giggled in a most un-gentlemanlike manner.

Sherlock didn’t look as if he believed his own statement either, but he shot Dr. Watson a glare before haughtily saying, “Well, if you had not seen fit to romanticize my cases-”

“I would remind you, Holmes, that you gave me permission to publish your cases,” Dr. Watson said, but with no real anger. He looked, instead, fondly exasperated. This was clearly an argument they had had numerous times. From the looks of things, they had never come to an agreement and were unlikely to do so now. 

“Well,” Mycroft said, and they both turned to look at him. “If you will not accept the knighthood, I am sure we can find something else with which to reward you for your service.”

“The work itself is my reward, as you well know,” Sherlock retorted. “Besides, if you really must know, simply look at the other men who have been so honored in recent years. Most have simply given large amounts of money to ‘charitable causes’ or have contributed to the general misuse of military power abroad. I have no wish to be associated in any way with such men.”

While Mycroft had often decried the tendency of the British Empire to attempt to rule areas that he knew would be unlikely to succeed, in that moment he defended the Crown as any loyal employee should. “You call our efforts across the Empire misuse?”

“Certainly the Boer War was an exercise in futility,” Sherlock said. “The entire campaign was beset by misinformation, poor planning and overconfidence on the part of its leaders, and the result was a three-month conflict in which too many lives were lost.”

Mycroft was astonished, not least because he had no idea Sherlock was so well-informed about anything other than crime, but because he was largely correct. The Boer War had been a disastrous campaign that brought nothing but grief to everyone involved.

“To say nothing of the Afghan conflict,” Sherlock continued. “My dear Mycroft, if no one since Alexander the Great has been able to successfully conquer and rule Afghanistan, what would make anyone possibly think we could do better?”

Oh, of course, Mycroft realized, looking at Dr. Watson, who still carried a heavy walking stick due to injuries received in Afghanistan. It made sense that Sherlock, who had seen the doctor through his early convalescence after his return in 1881, would have strong feelings about the powers that had sent him there.

Mycroft could not truly argue. Both campaigns had been disastrous affairs that did much to erode British control in the areas they took place in, although the Afghan campaign had become moderately more successful after the Battle of Kandahar, only a month after the defeat at Maiwand.

“That is not to say that military power can never be used correctly, and is even sometimes necessary,” Sherlock continued, glancing over at Dr. Watson. “Every nation must be able to defend itself but you see why I cannot stand alongside such men with pride.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, conceding the argument with a sigh. Dr. Watson looked askance at his fellow-lodger, and the elder Holmes suspected they would be discussing this over dinner. 

“Holmes? If you don’t mind, I think I may take a turn around the block. I find it is a little warm in this room,” Dr. Watson said, after a few moments silence.

“I will join you in a moment,” Sherlock said, barely looking up as his fellow-lodger took his leave and left. “If there is nothing else, that is, Mycroft. Please find me some honor that is less public than a knighthood. You know how I dislike taking credit.”

“Sherlock, wait,” Mycroft said. “If you do not wish any publicity, why do you permit Dr. Watson to write those stories? They have more circulation than news of a knighthood ever could.”

Sherlock sighed theatrically, “Because, dear brother, I would far rather have praise from someone whom I respect and admire in return than from the establishment that plays games with the fate of nations and then calls on me to fix them. Good evening.”

There was logic in that, Mycroft supposed. Sherlock never did have much respect for authority. He gave Dr. Watson high praise indeed by allowing him to write those stories that had made them both famous. He wondered for a moment if the doctor knew this and then reasoned that he probably did. They were an almost seamless team by now; one did not become that way with Sherlock Holmes without being able to read between the lines.

And really, how arrogant, and how like his brother, to assume that the only thing he would receive from both his friends and his government was praise for his abilities and service.


	9. Chapter 9

September 1904

“Congratulations, Sherlock, on yet another case successfully completed,” Mycroft said. He studied his brother closely; he had followed the news stories as closely as anyone in London of the attack on the famous detective by Baron Gruner’s men. “I must say, you are looking remarkably well for a man who was supposedly at death’s door only last week.”

“Come now, Mycroft, you know I had to pretend to be in worse condition for the papers,” Sherlock answered. It was surprising how little he had, in fact, changed since the early days of his career. His hair was still a glossy black; his gaunt features appeared to have gained no wrinkles in the twenty-odd years he had been working. Mycroft knew he himself was less lucky; his girth had only increased with time and he wore his age on his face as if it had always been there (usually he did not mind, it served to intimidate the new staff very well). Dr. Watson, the few times Mycroft had seen him, was moving slower than usual, and his hair and mustache were now streaked with gray. He sighed, wondering where the years had gone.

“Yes, I surmised as much when Dr. Watson did not come bursting in here begging me to come to Baker Street to pay my last respects,” Mycroft said calmly. He did not begrudge the fact that no one had included him in the deception; he had done more than his share of assisting Sherlock to deceive the public. “How is the good doctor, by the way?”

“He has found a practice in Queen Anne Street,” Sherlock answered. “I am glad for him, even though it means I see comparatively little of him now. After the events of the Garridebs case, I began to truly wonder if we have been at this too long.”

Mycroft had heard of Dr. Watson’s attack only three months before and had been surprised at the depth of his own reaction. He hadn’t admitted it, but the same thoughts had crossed his mind: were Sherlock and Dr. Watson getting too advanced in years to continue in their roles as detective and assistant? Most men, at the age of fifty or so, were content to begin ending their public roles and retire to an enjoyment of private life. Sherlock had mentioned the idea with increasing frequency in recent years, most notably after the scare of Dr. Watson’s attack. But even Mycroft found it difficult to imagine a time when Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were not in Baker Street, waiting for the next case. It seemed as if they always had been there and always would be. 

Sherlock leaned forward, appearing to be at a loss for words for the first time Mycroft could remember since they were children. “Mycroft, I wanted to tell you…I am retiring. As soon as I finish up my current cases, I am ending my career as a consulting detective.”

“I had thought you might,” Mycroft said, taking the news as confirmation of what they had discussed on previous occasions. “I wish you luck, Sherlock. I believe I can say with some certainty that you leave at the very top of your profession.” 

Sherlock shook his head, “If I were to do that, I would not have been attacked by Gruner’s thugs. I am getting slow. This case showed me that all too clearly. Even ten years ago they should never have taken me by surprise like that. First Watson very nearly was shot to death, and now I was left for dead. All in the course of three months! No, Mycroft, I am slipping. Best to leave now before something truly terrible happens.”

“What will you do?”

“I have taken a house in Sussex Downs,” Sherlock answered. “A small cottage, where I can do my chemical experiments, walk along the countryside, and keep bees. An extra room for Watson when he visits, and I have all I need.”

Keep bees? Mycroft was used by now to his brother’s strange leaps of interest, but beekeeping was new even to him. “Why bees?”

Sherlock brightened considerably. “Bees are a most fascinating insect. All work for the good of the hive, producing food and caring for the young, under the direction of a queen. They provide an essential service in pollinating plants, and give honey for our use. A most industrious insect from which we have much to learn.”

Mycroft shook his head, “To each their own. I only wish I could do the same.”

“You have not thought about retiring yourself? You have done more than your fair share,” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft sighed, “I have considered it, but I do not know where they would find someone to replace me. My function in government is absolutely unique, and with the situation on the Continent the way it is, I am loath to leave.”

“Then I take it I shall not see you very often after this,” Sherlock said.

“Why ever not? You’re retiring to Sussex, not dying,” Mycroft said exasperatedly.

“I have no intention of returning to London unless absolutely necessary,” Sherlock said. “And as I highly doubt that you will suddenly become enamored of travel through the countryside, there will be little opportunity of seeing one another.”

“You? Not returning to London?” Mycroft tried to hide his shock and failed. His brother breathed in time with the city. Now he was leaving, never to return?

“It has far too many memories for me,” Sherlock said grandly. “I want to make a complete break. Besides, there will be little temptation for me to return to detective work where I am going. I chose Sussex Downs because it has the lowest crime rate in the country. No, dear brother, it is time for me to begin again, in a career more suited to the twilight of life.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you are so melodramatic. Taking leave as if you are shutting yourself up in an anchorite’s cell, never to see anyone again,” Mycroft admonished. “It is only Sussex. You will have to get yourself a telephone.”

Sherlock laughed, “One of those aggravating ringing contraptions? I think not, Mycroft. Telegrams and letters are good enough for me.”

“You never write letters,” Mycroft said. “I find the telephone to be an extraordinarily useful device. I can hold important meetings and discussions without ever having to leave my desk. Besides, I would like to know I can reach you in an instant should I require your professional services.”

Sherlock knew instantly what his brother was referring to. “Do you think that will be necessary? I am, of course, willing to come out of retirement should my country need me, but I was under the impression that the situation was not as bad as all that.”

“Of course, it is impossible to tell with any certainty,” Mycroft began. “But all the signs point in one direction, and have for as long as I have been working for the Crown: war. It is all but inevitable, Sherlock. This continent is a powder keg, ready to ignite at the smallest provocation. Before the next ten years are over, there will be a war unlike any we have ever seen.” He sincerely hoped he was wrong, but in all his years of service at Whitehall, it had become a mantra among the staff of all departments: “You need to ask Mr. Holmes about that. He’s never wrong.”

“Well, they will need you more than ever, should that come to pass,” Sherlock said, getting up. “Good luck, Mycroft.”

“And you,” Mycroft said, shaking his brother by the hand. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for in the countryside.” He knew Sherlock was looking for some type of peace, and hoped the absence of London and its criminal activity would provide it. He was less than sure about this, because it also meant the absence of the people who had grounded him for so long.


	10. The View from the Diogenes Chapter 10

July 1912

This was the only way. Mycroft kept telling himself that, even as he wished there was something – anything – else he could do. But when the Foreign Minister and the Premier had asked him his advice on the subject, he only had one name to give them.

“That was a dirty trick, sending the Foreign Minister and the Premier to summon me,” Sherlock Holmes said as he entered Mycroft’s offices. “You know I am retired.”

Mycroft sighed, “I didn’t send them; it was their idea. You did say you would be willing to take on detective work if your country needed you, Sherlock. I would not ask it of you if there was any other way.”

Sherlock waited expectantly, and Mycroft sighed, “I do hope you meant it. I really cannot see any other way.”

“I did mean it,” Sherlock answered. “I have been following the news abroad myself. Naturally, if there is anything I can do to assist the Crown, I will.”

“That is what I wanted to hear.” Mycroft took a large file and put it in front of his brother. “We have received word through our intelligence agencies that the German intelligence agencies are allying themselves with certain factions of Irish rebels, both in Ireland and in America.”

Sherlock’s keen eyes brightened as he looked over the file, “That makes sense, the Irish no doubt believe that Germany will grant them independence should they win the upcoming war.”

“Precisely. Our intelligence networks are doing all they can to discern Germany’s intelligence and military capability, but I have no one who is capable of working in America. In short, I need a long-term , undercover operative to learn what is going on across the Atlantic. Naturally, they will be freer in their dealings with radical groups there, so far from the watchful eyes of the other European governments.”

“You want me to infiltrate the German spy organization?” Sherlock asked.

“That would be ideal, but as the Irish question falls under our jurisdiction, I think it would be better if you were to infiltrate one of the rebel groups. Besides, I did not think your German was quite up to the standard it would need to be.” Both brothers were fluent in French, but while Mycroft had kept up with his German, Sherlock had not used his since university.

Sherlock nodded, “It will be easier to put on a false American accent. Or even an Irish one, if need be?” He looked at his older brother quizzically.

“American, I think. Many of the rebel groups originate there. The descendants of the Irish in America have great feeling toward the mother country.” Mycroft held no judgment in his voice for the rebellious Irish organizations. He was the perfect civil servant; utterly apolitical, interested only in finishing the job at hand. Even when he hated what he had to do, as now. 

“And how long will this assignment last?”

Mycroft looked sorrowfully at his brother. “I do not know, Sherlock. There is no science to predicting when war will break out. The only certainty is that it will. It may happen next week, or a year from now. I would prepare for a long assignment. A few years, would be my guess.”

Sherlock’s face fell, but he rallied and nodded briskly. “That would be my guess as well. It will take time to falsify documents and establish myself as a trustworthy individual to these groups I will have to infiltrate.”

Mycroft slid another file across the desk. “I have already provided you with a false identity. You shall be known as Altamont, of Chicago. We believe that is the base of the organizations you will be dealing with.”

Sherlock took the file and studied it intently, “I see. And what is my target?”

“I take it you have heard of a man named Von Bork?”

“Indeed I have. He is only the best spy the Germans have on their books.”

“He is the center of a vast organization of informants, but most of his information comes through the Irish rebel groups. We need you to feed him false information about British military matters, and to pass along to us anything you find about the German military, treaties with other powers, intelligence operatives…anything at all that will be useful to us.” Mycroft looked at his brother seriously, “Sherlock, you must leave everything of yourself behind. Von Bork is no fool. He has been in this country for two years, and is in contact with people around the world. Nothing happens in political circles without him knowing of it. It will be a difficult assignment.”

Sherlock laughed, “That is putting it mildly, Mycroft! I do not think I have seen such a hazardous case since Professor Moriarty himself.” He sobered quickly. “I will have to have Stackhurst watch my bees.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How typical of his brother that on the eve of the most dangerous assignment he had ever faced, one on which the fate of nations rested, he was more concerned about his bees.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock handed his brother a note, written quickly. “I may be able to fool Stackhurst by telling him I am taking a grand tour of Europe, but Watson knows me too well. He knows I would never leave my cottage for long, and will grow suspicious. Once word got out that I was gone for any length of time, tongues would begin to loosen. That is the last thing we want. Please give him this note.”

Mycroft took the note, “I hope this says nothing incriminating. You know all intelligence operations take place in utmost secrecy.”

Sherlock stood up, “Do you really think I am unaware of that? You can see it is not sealed; you may read it to make sure. I simply will not go without giving Watson some warning. I have done that to him once already, and I refuse to do it again. Surely I can give him that, at least?” His expression was tinged with fear; Mycroft realized that between their advancing ages and the danger of the assignment, there was a real chance that they may never see each other again. 

“Of course, Sherlock, forgive me. I will give this to him,” Mycroft looked at his brother; realized the same was true for them, that they may never see each other again. “Take care of yourself, Sherlock. I expect you back here to give me your report when the assignment is done.”

Sherlock smiled, adopting an American accent in preparation for his role, “You can count on it.”

Once he was gone, Mycroft unfolded the note and read it. Just to be sure.

My dear Watson,

I regret that I have not seen as much of you as of late, I know your practice keeps you busy, as my bees do. 

I regret even more that it will be some time before we see each other again. I cannot explain why, but rest assured if you do not hear from me, it is not because of a loss of regard on my part. It is only that I have certain things that need to be finished – nothing terribly important, but they do need to be done.

I will be certain to call on you as soon as they are complete. Until then, take care of yourself, old friend. I look forward to meeting you again.

Yours,  
Sherlock Holmes

 

Mycroft folded the note and shook his head sadly, reaching for his snuff box. He knew that not wanting to put Sherlock in any more danger was not a legitimate reason to refuse to send him, but he wished it were.


	11. Chapter 11

August 1914

The first lists of men who had volunteered in the British Armed Forces came across Mycroft’s desk that morning. He looked at them dispassionately; he had never found it easy to empathize with those he did not know, but what was likely to take place over the next few years was staggering even to him. The technological developments alone, many of which he had approved for military use over his long career, would mean carnage the likes of which had never seen before. He sat back, his mind doing the calculations involuntarily. The sheer number of men enlisted, combined with the number of soldiers from other countries, and the capacity each nation had for warfare meant the cost was going to be high, in every way it could be. Statistics was something Mycroft did understand, and the result of his preliminary calculations was enough to make him wish he had been able to retire before any of this started.

Shaking his head of these dark thoughts, he turned back to the list, forcing himself to read through each name. The Secretary of War was waiting for his estimations, how many men they would need in each branch of the service. Entirely unofficial, of course, but then everything Mycroft had ever done was unofficial. He made his way down the list, until he reached a name he never expected to see.

John H. Watson, M.D.

Dr. Watson was sixty-two years old; he could not possibly mean to re-enlist? The poor man had done enough for his country, and Mycroft was about to send for him to tell him so when his secretary knocked on his door.

“Mr. Holmes, sir? I have a message from your brother. He wants to come and see you as soon as possible.”

Sherlock was here in London? “Tell him I’m waiting.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock came striding into Mycroft’s office, sporting a new goatee. He was thinner than ever, but his step was jaunty. “Good to see you, Mycroft!”

Mycroft winced at the obvious Americanisms that had crept into his brother’s speech, “You as well, Sherlock. I take it the assignment is complete?”

“Just about,” Sherlock said, sitting in the chair opposite Mycroft’s desk. “I have arranged to meet Von Bork tonight to give him one last piece of intelligence before he returns to Germany. I convinced him it was of the utmost importance so he could not leave without it.” He pulled a folder out of his coat, “And here is the latest information I have learned from him.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, taking it. “After tonight, then, Von Bork will be in our custody, and we will be able to get whatever we want out of him. You will be free to retire once more.”

Sherlock smiled, “I am glad of that. This has been a harrowing two years. There is only one thing. I told Von Bork I would have a driver.”

“Then you shall have one,” Mycroft said, preparing to ring for a chauffeur. Sherlock stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“I have one already in mind, Mycroft. Would you mind sending for him?”

“Who – oh, you mean Dr. Watson. Does he have one of those motorcars?”

“The last time we spoke he said he was getting one,” Sherlock said. “And I took the liberty of scoping out – forgive me, Mycroft, I spent far too long in America - his practice, and there is a car parked in the front.”

Mycroft sent his secretary to find Dr. Watson, then turned to Sherlock, who fidgeted slightly before asking, “How is Watson, by the way? I take it you were watching out for him.”

“Always, Sherlock. He appears to be fine. His practice is a busy one, and he maintained friendships with many of the Scotland Yarders. He even dropped by the Diogenes every so often. I think he suspected something; he always asked after you, although of course I could tell him nothing.” Mycroft stopped. “Sherlock, I think it best you have some warning.” He handed his brother the list of soldiers. 

“A list of soldiers for the war?” Sherlock asked, his expression quizzical. “This will be a war to end all wars, brother. Many of these names will not make it home.”

“There is one name there you will recognize,” Mycroft said heavily. Sherlock read over the page, then stopped. His eyes widened as he reached Dr. Watson’s name, first in shock and then in fear.

“Mycroft! How could he enlist again? He is two years older than I – there must be something you can do to stop this, or to ease his service!” Sherlock’s expression was wild, desperate. Mycroft could not help feeling some sympathy. For the second time in his life Sherlock had spent years away from the only person he had ever felt a connection with, and now on his return, that man was leaving to fight in a war that could very well mean his death. 

“I will try, Sherlock, but perhaps you will have better luck than I,” Mycroft said, gesturing toward the door, where Dr. Watson was standing shyly.

“I received your telegram Mr. – Holmes!” The doctor’s face broke into a wide smile when he recognized his friend. “I had no idea you were back. In fact, I had no idea where you were. Your brother was most uninformative.” He threw Mycroft a dark look as Sherlock laughed.

“My dear Watson, we have very little time, so let us get down to it. You have a motorcar, correct?” When Dr. Watson confirmed that he did, Sherlock smiled.

“Good. You must drive me down to this suburb of London tonight, and be prepared for danger.”

“After years of living with you, Holmes, I am always prepared for danger,” Dr. Watson said dryly, and Sherlock laughed.

“There is that pawky sense of humor. Come, there isn’t a moment to lose!” He all but ran out of the room, and Dr. Watson turned to follow him.

“Dr. Watson? May I speak with you, please?” Mycroft asked. Dr. Watson looked out the door after his friend, but the elder Holmes held up a hand, “He will wait. I have just received the names of the men who have enlisted for the Armed Forces. Your name was among them.”

“Yes, I am signing up as an Army Doctor again,” Dr. Watson answered. “What of it?”

Mycroft struggled to find the words, “Don’t you think that you have done enough for Great Britain, Doctor? After all, you fought for our country in your time, and you have assisted in many a case of national importance alongside my brother.”

Dr. Watson’s eyes narrowed, “That is true, but I cannot simply watch other, younger men go to war while I have the skills needed as well. They can learn from my experience, and,” his expression become sad, “they have families waiting. I have no one who will miss me. Surely it is better that I take one of their places?”

“You are wrong about that, Doctor,” Mycroft said sternly. “I know of one person who will miss you very much indeed. “ 

Dr. Watson’s expression softened, “I did not realize he would be back. I had no idea where he even was these last two years.” He looked around Mycroft’s office. “I take it he was doing something related to the war effort. Something preemptive?”

Mycroft smiled, “You do yourself a disservice in those stories, Doctor. You are quite quick-witted enough to keep up with him.” Not necessarily with Mycroft, but after so many years, definitely with Sherlock.

Dr. Watson shrugged, “It wasn’t a difficult deduction. I have not seen him for two years, and suddenly he returns, clearly changed and making a report in your office?” He looked shrewdly up at Mycroft, “I am not angry; I doubt anything he does could surprise me anymore. On the contrary, I am glad the Crown could count on his skills. God knows we could use all the help we can get.” His expression grew mournful, no doubt thinking of all the young men who not make it home.

“But not necessarily yours, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “I can have you serve your term out here, in England. Training doctors, or something of that sort.”

“Mr. Holmes, if your brother can come out of retirement and give his all to this cause, how can I do any less?” Dr. Watson asked, and Mycroft was instantly ashamed. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. 

“I will see to it that all your letters reach home without censorship,” Mycroft finally said. There was nothing else to be done. Sherlock entered the office again, looking questioningly at them both. Mycroft shook his head slightly over Dr. Watson’s shoulder as they shook hands, and his brother’s face fell.

“Good luck to you both, tonight and in the future,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock rallied himself for the chase and he and Dr. Watson left. Mycroft turned back to the list of servicemen, looked it over for another minute, then turned around and threw it in the fire.

Damn this war, he thought. And everyone who caused it.


	12. Chapter 12

September 1916

Mycroft stalked through the hallway, barely noticing the somber mood. It had been this way since the war began two years ago, and it didn’t show any sign of letting up soon. At times it seemed like the war would never end. 

“Are these the latest casualty figures?” He asked his staffers. “Let me take a look at them before we send them to the papers.” He tried to keep an eye on the lists, but it had become increasingly difficult as the war dragged on. Especially this year. The Battle of the Somme, which had been raging in France for the last two months, was quickly turning into the bloodiest battle of the war, perhaps one of the bloodiest battles ever. Still, Mycroft never let anything get in the way of doing his job. Not even his own feelings on the carnage he was witnessing from a distance. All the same, he sighed in relief on seeing there were no names he recognized on the list. 

Then his telephone rang. Mycroft picked it up, and it was if the trenches had suddenly appeared in his office. He could hear shouted orders and the occasional bomb going off in the distance. Suddenly those casualty lists didn’t seem so distant. “This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, who is this?”

“We’re sending the lists but they told us to call this number ahead if anything happened,” the voice on the other end shouted without preamble over the sounds of rockets and gunfire. “I’m Major Clinton, in charge of the regiment Dr. Watson is attached to?”

Mycroft’s heart sank. “What is it, Major?”

“Just, we had a tough assignment up at the front, and there were some casualties. It was a real job getting out of there and Dr. Watson insisted on trying to bring back some more of the wounded men. And we, uh – when we did a head count later he wasn’t there. He didn’t make it back.” Major Clinton’s voice lowered in sadness, “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. We all liked Dr. Watson here.”

“What are you saying? Was Dr. Watson killed?” Mycroft wasn’t a praying man but in that moment he prayed – wished? – with all his heart that it wasn’t true. He didn’t know what he would do with Sherlock otherwise, now that even he was used to thinking of them as a partnership.

The major sighed, “We don’t know. We listed him as missing in our report. It’s possible he wasn’t, that he was just taken prisoner, or is lost between lines. But it’s been three days and we couldn’t wait any longer to contact you. We’re sending the casualty lists this afternoon.”

Mycroft put his head in his free hand, “Thank you, Major, for letting me know.” He hung up the phone, only to see his secretary standing outside the door. “Yes, what is it, Wallace? I’m very busy,” he snapped.

“I only wanted to know if you were done with the casualty lists,” Wallace said, and Mycroft sighed.

“I’m sorry, Wallace. Yes, I am. And please tell everyone I’m not to be disturbed. I have an important phone call to make, and it won’t be an easy conversation.”

Wallace, who had been with Mycroft long enough to guess his moods, looked shrewdly at his employer, “Is it Dr. Watson?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said heavily. “I’ve just received word that he has been reported missing. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to inform my brother before the news reaches the papers. It’s better if he hears it from me.” It would be better if he didn’t have to hear it at all, but the papers would have a field day with this news. 

“Hello? Who is it?” Sherlock answered the telephone promptly.

“It’s Mycroft. I…have some news that I didn’t want you to hear from the papers.” 

Sherlock’s breath caught, “Watson…Mycroft, was he killed?” Mycroft could picture his brother, even though he had never seen the cottage at Sussex Downs, sitting there, his expression frozen between fear and grief.

“No, Sherlock. He is missing. His regiment had some difficulty getting back to their lines, as I understand it, and in the chaos, they lost track of him.” Mycroft sat back. “I don’t really know much else, Sherlock. They only just informed me, directly from the front lines.”

Sherlock sounded like he hadn’t even heard Mycroft, “He could be wounded, then, in no-man’s land. Or captured by the Germans. If he is behind enemy lines it will be difficult to find him, but I have done worse in my time. There is no time to lose, if he is lost the Germans will find him quickly.”

“Sherlock?” No response, so Mycroft tried again. “Sherlock! You are not going after him. Do you think I want to lose you to this war as well?”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?”

“I am sending the very best people I have right away,” Mycroft said, beginning to make a list of names. His best intelligence operatives would be pulled off their assignments, provided they weren’t in the middle of something too important, to do this instead. Mycroft had never asked for anything personal in all his years of service at Whitehall; he had some favors he could call in and he intended to use them.

Sherlock, however, scoffed, “Do you really trust the equivalent of Scotland Yard to do this? I would much prefer to go myself.”

“Sherlock, you are an excellent detective, but you are not a soldier, or a military commander, or in any way experienced in military matters. In this one instance, please step back and let those with more experience and knowledge take care of it. I promise you, we will do everything possible to bring Dr. Watson back to safety.” Everything possible, and then some. It was time to see what Mycroft’s governmental powers were truly capable of.

 

“Do you know what you are asking?” the Foreign Minister said indignantly. “I can’t pull these men away from their assignments!”

“It is only for a few days,” Mycroft said patiently. “I checked the progress of their assignments and I am positive nothing will go wrong if they leave for a few days. I am not suggesting we use anyone who is too involved in something of dire importance.” He had personally chosen the men for their records of success and for their availability. The Foreign Minister gave him a dark look.

“You are far too informed for your own good, Mr. Holmes.”

“You and half of your staff owe your positions to my information,” Mycroft said mildly. He had, indeed, recommended the Foreign Minister to this position, and had slowly filled the office with his own staff members. It was a simply matter of efficiency; Mycroft’s staff was the best-trained in the government, and he thought it better to have men he could depend on in each department. The fact that it gave him even more influence that he had already enjoyed was a mere side benefit.

“Yes, well,” the Foreign Minister looked at Mycroft guiltily. “I will see what I can do. I enjoyed the Doctor’s stories myself, you know.”

The wait dragged into the next week, and it was agonizing. Sherlock called every day, sometimes more than once, to see if there had been any news. Mycroft was growing impatient with his staff, and he often wished they would hear something, even if it was bad news. At least then they would know something, although every time this thought crossed his mind he was seized with guilt. 

Finally, after seven days, Mycroft’s telephone rang and he picked it up with some trepidation, expecting it to be his brother, who was increasingly distraught with every day that passed (although only Mycroft and perhaps Dr. Watson himself knew Sherlock enough to be able to tell). Instead, a voice on the other end exclaimed, “We have him, sir!”

“Who is this and who do you have?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. My name is Scott Bennet, I’m the intelligence officer sent after Dr. Watson? We found him, sir.”

Mycroft sat up straight at his desk, “Is he all right?”

“A little tired, I think. Other than that he appears to be all right. We found him hiding in a barn near one of the occupied towns on the French border. It seems our troops retreated without him in the chaos.” Mycroft sat back and almost laughed with relief.

“Is he there with you? Can I speak with him?”

“Is Holmes there?” The new voice was obviously Dr. Watson’s, sounding tired but none the worse for wear.

“No, I insisted he stay at his cottage. He would have been no use to anyone, getting in the way and taking risks on your behalf,” Mycroft said. “I am glad to hear you are all right, Doctor.”

“I’m lucky they found me. A few more days and my hiding place would have been found out. I was almost surrounded as it was.” Dr. Watson’s voice sounded giddy with relief and Mycroft made a note that the men who had found him should be commended.

“I did all I could, Doctor. My brother would never have forgiven me otherwise.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I can’t send him a telegram right now, would you tell him I’m all right? I have to return to my unit.” Mycroft knew better than to argue that Dr. Watson should return home; as long as he felt fit for duty he would remain there.

“I certainly will. He will be relieved to hear it,” Mycroft said. 

Relieved turned out to be an understatement. Sherlock laughed aloud and actually crowed in his excitement, thanking Mycroft multiple times for his planning and training of the intelligence men who had found the doctor. It wasn’t often Mycroft had heard his brother so happy, but it was for the most joyful of reasons. He hung up the phone, with the first smile he’d worn in more time that could remember.

It was the first joyful duty he’d had to carry out since the beginning of the war.


	13. Chapter 13

November 1918

“You are sure he has been discharged?” Sherlock asked, pacing the floor of Mycroft’s Pall Mall rooms.

“Yes, I’m positive, Sherlock. He was discharged last week and should be boarding the ship to Southampton today. With any luck, he will arrive in London tomorrow,” Mycroft said patiently from his favorite armchair. Lately he was finding even the simple walk from his rooms to Whitehall difficult, and he supposed it was time for him to consider retirement. Now that the war was finally over, he might actually be able to do it. 

Before that, however, he had to make sure all Great Britain’s soldiers made it home safely. And the number one priority was, unofficially, Dr. Watson. Mycroft could not remember ever feeling as grateful for anything as the doctor’s survival, although that was nothing compared to his brother’s depth of feeling on the matter. Mycroft doubted Sherlock had slept a full night since the start of the war for worry. Now his anxiety had reached the surface; the younger man was hardly able to remain still even for the few days left before Dr. Watson’s return. 

“Do sit down, you’re making me tired walking around like that,” Mycroft finally said, gesturing Sherlock toward one of the armchairs. “Dr. Watson will be here before you know it; I hope you are prepared for how he may return.” The reports of some of the returning soldiers, not only the physical wounds but the mental and emotional tolls were devastating. It seemed as if this war had destroyed an entire generation; and for nothing. Mycroft could not help feeling bitter; aside from war reparations, nothing had been resolved. There wasn’t even a clear victor. 

“I am prepared, Mycroft,” Sherlock said simply. His tone brooked no disagreement, and Mycroft nodded. He was not going to presume to tell his brother how to treat his closest friend after all these years, not when he knew he had no experience in the matter. Of friendship, that is. He never had been able to see the point; it seemed like a great deal of work, but there was no doubt Dr. Watson’s influence had done Sherlock good over the years. Mycroft was very willing to see the value in something, even if he had no use for it himself. 

“Mycroft? I said, is it all right if Watson and I stay here for a day or two?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft jerked out of his reverie. 

“Yes, of course. I take it you are returning to Sussex as soon as possible?”

“I am planning to, yes. I don’t know what Watson will do, of course.” Sherlock said it casually, but the worry was in his voice. At the age of sixty-seven and only just returned from war, the likelihood that Dr. Watson would be able to return to practice was small. Mycroft tactfully did not take up the topic; it would be more than enough right now for them to be reunited.

The next day, Sherlock left before Mycroft went to the office, presumably to wait at Victoria Station. Mycroft shook his head; if he’d waited, they probably would have been able to find out when Dr. Watson’s ship was due in and then figure out which train he was likely to make, but then Sherlock could be curiously impatient at times. 

By the time Mycroft returned to his rooms, skipping his usual dinner at the Diogenes (an event rare enough to ensure confusion among the other members as to which club they had actually entered), Sherlock and Dr. Watson had only just returned. In fact, he met them in the entranceway of his building.

“It is good to see you back, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said warmly, shaking the doctor’s hand. He noticed with dismay how thin and frail Watson was looking. On top of that, he’d clearly missed the train he had wanted to be on and been forced to change at Winchester.

“It is good to be back, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Watson said, a trace of his old smile returning to his face. “I am sure I will grow tired of London before long, but right now it seems the most beautiful place in the world.” Sherlock smiled at this, although Mycroft saw the concern in his eyes at the state of Watson’s health. 

“Come, you must dine with us tonight,” Mycroft said. Dr. Watson’s tired eyes brightened and he climbed the stairs with some difficulty, matched by Mycroft. They caught each other’s eyes and began to laugh.

“You are the only one who has remained in shape,” Mycroft called up to Sherlock, some five steps above them. 

Sherlock scoffed and seemed about to reply, but swallowed the retort on seeing what a difficult time his friend was having. “I have not had to fight a war these last five years,” he finally said. “Or run one from the seat of government.” Oh, yes, Sherlock had changed over the decades. There was a time when no apparent weakness would have been excused so kindly.

Once in Mycroft’s rooms, he had his cook prepare a sumptuous dinner, in celebration of the war’s end.

“I haven’t had a meal like that in the whole five years I’ve been gone, thank you,” Dr. Watson said when they were finished. He looked satisfied, and some color had returned to his face. The conversation remained pleasant, never turning to the war. There would be time enough for that; tonight was for joyful reunions and reminiscences.

“It is my pleasure, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “I have few enough people to share my table with, and my brother has never had much natural culinary enjoyment.” Sherlock glowered at him, but Dr. Watson began to laugh.

“Yes, that is true. You remember how Mrs. Hudson used to despair of your appetite.”

“Only when on a case,” Sherlock said, but he smiled, and Dr. Watson conceded the point. 

“How is Mrs. Hudson, by the way, Holmes?”

“Well. She has been living near her sister these last ten years and still writes me regularly. She spends a great deal of time complaining how her neighbors are too quiet and orderly. It seems she misses my indoor gunfire and chemical experiments.”

Dr. Watson laughed aloud, and Sherlock looked distinctly proud of himself for his friend’s cheerful mood.

“I dislike bringing you both back to reality,” Mycroft said, when the laughter had died down, “but I have to ask, what are you planning to do from now on? You know you are entitled to a military pension?”

“Yes,” Dr. Watson answered. “I am really unsure. I have no attachments, no business or practice I must return to. I have some more stories I intend to publish, and I thought I might do more in that line. Writing would seem to be the only profession left open to me.” He looked down, his expression growing dark. The war had taken more than his health; Dr. Watson seemed to think it had also robbed him of his usefulness, although most men of his age would no longer be practicing their professions.

“That is no small thing,” Mycroft said gently, for his brother seemed to be at a complete loss for words. 

Dr. Watson brought himself back with an effort, “No, it is not. I should not be so discouraged, not when so many are worse off than I am.”

“Would you stay here in London?” Mycroft asked. “I am sure I can find you suitable rooms.” He knew someone at the Veterans’ Office owed him a favor.

“Oh no, we have already talked about that,” Dr. Watson said, a true smile appearing on his face now. “I am not blind where my own health is concerned, as so many doctors are. I know I should not be living alone anymore, and as your brother is used to me as a fellow-lodger, there is no reason why I should not join him in Sussex. There is, after all, nothing holding me in London.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked, concentrating on his brother only. He knew Dr. Watson would likely have a difficult time recovering from the war, if indeed, he ever fully did. He also knew Sherlock was impatient and acerbic at the best of times; not the best companion for a recovering veteran to have.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, his face determined. “It will be a fresh start for you, Watson. Sussex is quiet, the perfect place for you to recover and write as much as you please.” And for himself, he might have added, it would be a return to the times he had been happiest; he and Watson living together, bulwarked against the rest of society. It was written all over his brother’s face; Mycroft barely had to deduce it. 

“It is fitting, in a way,” Mycroft said finally. “You started off as fellow-lodgers after Dr. Watson returned from war, and now it seems it will end that way.” He was not overly superstitious, and would not shy away from mention of their own mortality. It had to come to them as it came to everyone; that was only rational knowledge. There was no use ignoring it.

Sherlock, however, laughed lightly, “Oh, I don’t know if it will ever end. With us in my sitting room at Sussex Downs, it will feel as if it is always 1895, will it not, Watson?”

Watson smiled, “Those were good days, Holmes. If that is what my retirement is to be, I have little to complain about.”

Strangely enough, Mycroft could almost believe it himself. There was little enough of the mystic in him, but in the presence of his brother and Dr. Watson, he could almost believe in…something, whether it was immortality, the kind brought by pen and ink, or fate, the kind that brought two people together. Or, today, miracles. The kind that saved one man from being one statistic among millions and brought him back to live out his days in a bee-covered cottage in Sussex with his closest friend.

It only proved there was something worth believing in, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally intending to add an epilogue (if anyone noticed the final chapter count change from 14 to 13), but I don't think what I was planning would fit the tone of the story, and I do like the ending of Holmes and Watson essentially riding into the sunset together.


End file.
